Little Corpse

Melancholy is a sensual pleasure that is deliberately provoked. How many people shut themselves away to make themselves sadder, or to weep beside a stream, or choose a sentimental book! We are constantly building and unbuilding ourselves.

Is a cut still valid if it doesn’t bleed? Can words still wound even if they’re not sharp, more blunt force trauma rather than razor blade? Is it possible for the mouth to hold a name as gently as the word “home” even if you don’t live there anymore? Can a bone fracture under the weight of worry? Will my skeleton crumble in on itself if I feel too much fight over flight? If my heart ever grows the balls to leave my brain, do you think she’ll still think of her sometimes? Will the rhythm of her beating, pulsing, mechanical pumping haunt my brain like an echo stuck on repeat? Does the bloodshed ever stop staining? Does the jaw ever stop straining when the phrase ‘I love you’ is uttered? Is it possible to feel clean again after rolling around in the dirty sheets of an ex lover? Does the bullet ever stop digging into bone? When will the light turn off and the dark stay on? Has it already? How can you gaze towards the horizon of my spine yet not long to touch it? Did you ever think the glow of your skin would burn out? What does it mean to be homesick for a body? For a home? Will it be easier to sleep now?

kalopsia